Beach Day
When are we not waiting?
What is the difference between standing still and moving?
An ocean in an ocean, universe within universe, contained and contained again, rumbling and rumbling again; maybe that's all there is to communication. After all, an old man once stood by the ocean. He took his shoes off and walked into the surf. His vision separated from his perception and it saw: form. The wind blew, the waves moved, the silt shifted. Yet all was one thing; composed of ten-thousand, sealed in one. Change in the unchanging. Wow. He woke up. He felt the silt shift under his feet, and the parallax he heard say he was on the move. He was drunk. The illusion broke the body, and he stumbled. The ocean and the boy danced. Or maybe they just looked stupid. But the ocean never cared. Nonsense.
Here we all are: ocean on our toes; one in one, moved and unmoved. The motion is sickening, a thing of beauty; cold, yet immersed in: warm. Ten thousand and one.
This can't all make sense to you. But such is where its genius is at. Listen properly, breathe, and I promise you'll be moved. This shit is real to the mind properly alive. Dead and you couldn't hear this. Understand how communication works. It's between me and you right now: a rock and a hard place. Their attrition moves through the sands of time, and will eventually wash up: beached right back at the start.
